Fetching up | in the skin of a ripe | avocado | lying your eyes | on the shining blade | of a long knife | a lonely place | Unopened | letters | unclaimed cars | sitting for months in station carparks, dead | leaves caught under the wipers, guano | Shoreline | event | always | Heart master | wakes you | Taken sleeping | for thousands of miles | trailed for years | under water | Dust | slumps in | to the openings | vagina | ear | mouth | caves | in | your life | is past, yet still | passes | People remove from you | beaters, keys, portable | drives | The days are also | nights | on the island | barren beyond compare | only the volcano lives here, grows and | breathes | pursues its one aim | relentlessly | giving birth to fire and graves

Lie belly down | by a small rock pool | scoop up | in cupped palms | cold, clear water | laced with bacteria | drink, see | if your dream will end | You are given tasks, so do these tasks | Dearth, heat, dirt, a healthy | diet | Uneasy | sleeper | carving echoes | from caves and willows | secretly | far away | beneath your feet | your heart waits | with its gifts of flowers and earth | flames and sulphur | It is hungry | You feed it with fleeing | and it feeds you | this evening | with one more reason for flight